


Foreign Agent

by Wordsy



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Blue Team, Gen, Humor, No Spoilers, Valhalla, Wash being a BAMF, chorus, psycho used as an insult, red team - Freeform, retirement bases, spider - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-15
Updated: 2018-07-15
Packaged: 2019-06-11 01:48:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,050
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15304743
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wordsy/pseuds/Wordsy
Summary: Even by Red team standards, the scene in front of Wash makes no sense.Or, Wash learns of one of the lesser known responsibilities of Blue Team Leader.





	Foreign Agent

For the first three or four rings, Wash is positive it’s an auditory hallucination.

But he’s only been awake for 32 hours, and those don’t usually start until much later. He’s just laid down and shut his eyes, determined to get some semblance of sleep. But now he’s sitting bolt upright in bed, staring at the far wall as another shrilled ring shatters the silence of the base. It’s not the digital beep of a comms unit or the loopy static of the radio either. It’s the high pitched, metallic rattle of an antique Earth phone.

He’s definitely hallucinating. Or dreaming. But the throbbing headache behind his eyes feels real, so it’s probably the former.

The door to Wash’s room swings open, and he starts for the knife under his pillow. When Tucker pokes his head in, Wash switches the movement to rearranging the blankets. It’s been 18 days since they pulled in from the snow on Sidewinder. His new teammate already thinks he’s twitchy and weird. Wash isn’t about to make it worse.

Tucker gives him a few groggy blinks.

“Dude,” he says, “you gonna get that?”

“You hear it too?” The words just slip out.

Tucker barely musters up the energy to look baffled.

“That’s how ears...noise...whatever works.” The man’s putting little to no effort into not falling asleep on his feet.

Wash jumps out of bed, stealthily slipping his knife into his waistband. “What is it? Where’s it coming from?”

“Have you never heard a phone ring before?” Tucker yawns. “Ugh, Christ, it’s like four am. Why?”

Wash is already brushing past him on his way to hunt down the noise. The sound leads him to the kitchen where it turns out Tucker’s right. Half hidden behind a crate of rations, a rotary phone rattles on its faded plastic hook.

“Sarge’s secret signal,” says Caboose, who’s materialized right behind him. Wash jumps at least three feet in the air but manages to stop himself from pulling out the knife.

“Sarge’s secret…” Wash trails off, watching the phone jingle.

And just like that, an old-fashioned telephone in a futuristic space base makes perfect sense. All he’d needed to do was add Sarge to the equation.

“Are you just gonna stare at it?” Tucker gripes from where he’s leaning against the door frame. “Caboose, get the phone will you?”

“Wait, no-” Wash starts, realizing what’s about to happen two seconds before Caboose grabs the phone cradle and rips it straight out of the concrete wall.

Wires snap and spark. The device gives a final pathetic whimper and falls silent. The Blue soldier holds the phone, now trailing smoking wires, out to Wash.

“It’s for you.”

“Goddammit, Caboose.” Tucker drags a hand down his face.

But Caboose is looking at Wash with such earnest he can’t stop himself from accepting the mangled phone.

“Uh...thanks, Caboose.”

“You should go visit the Sargent.”

Wash raises an eyebrow. “Why do you say that?”

“Oh, fuck,” says Tucker, “I forgot.”

Dropping the phone on the table with a clunk, Wash looks between his teammates. “What the hell’s going on here?”

“It means they need you to-” Caboose begins but Tucker runs right over him.

“I remember now,” the teal soldier announces. “It means a… a, ah, ‘foreign agent’ has entered the base. You should get over there.” He nods rapidly. “Like now.”

“Why didn’t you say anything sooner?!” Wash cries, voice hitting that mangled note it always does when he’s angry. Setting his shoulders, he clears his throat and tries again.

“Armor on.” He orders.  “We’re rolling out. I want you out in front of the base in two minutes.”

“You can’t be serious. Two minutes?” Tucker whines, reminding Wash of the figurative teeth pulling it takes to get his teammates suited up in twenty. And that’s on a good day.

“Why don’t you go on ahead,” the teal soldier suggests, “to gather, like… intel. And we’ll be right behind you. As back up.”

Wash starts digging through kitchen cabinets. “Fine, but be on guard and make sure Caboose goes to the bathroom before you leave.”

Opening an expired oatmeal canister from the back of the shelf, Wash dumps out three full clips of ammo. Then he grabs the pistol he’d taped to the underside of the silverware drawer. Tucker offers a quiet, _“What the fuck, dude”_ which the Freelancer ignores. They can discuss his paranoid tendencies later. Or never. Later can be never if you try hard enough.

Wash checks the gun is loaded and does a mental inventory of everything he’s got on him, from the knife and extra ammo to the miscellaneous items stashed in his cargo pants for emergencies.

“Where’s your armor?” Tucker asks as Wash starts for the door.

“Not exactly conducive to stealth,” Wash explains. “I’ll be fine. Now get moving. That’s an order.”

 

After the Freelancer vanishes, Caboose looks curiously at Tucker.

“Um, Tucker, I thought the very, very, very loud horn was for that thing that you said. And the telephone is the other thing.”

“Gee,” yawns Tucker, heading for the common room sofa. And coincidentally, the opposite direction of the armor in his room. “I must have mixed the two up. Whoops. I’m sure he’ll figure it out. Go check if we have any cereal left. I’m starving.”

* * *

 

Valhalla is dark under the sky’s thick cloud cover, the moon completely hidden from sight. In the distance, the exterior lights of Red base are out, wrapping the building in shadow.

Wash isn’t bothered. He memorized the entire layout of valley his first week here. The Freelancer had spent a lot of time away from Blue base then. Back when Tucker glared daggers at him whenever he thought Wash wasn’t looking and Caboose was still calling him Church.

Arriving at Red base, Wash immediately rules out use of the wide entrance of the base. There’s no cover if the enemy, or enemies, start shooting. But it’s easy enough to vault a parked warthog. From there he jumps to the ledge of the squat windows set high in the wall. Wash feels around for a latch or another way to open the window. Unsurprisingly, are none.

No problem. Wash digs through his pocket and fishes out a roll of tape. He crisscrosses the window with it. Then he smashes his elbow straight through the glass. The tape muffles the sound and keeps the shards from falling to the floor inside and creating a racket. Peeling back the mess of tape and glass from the window, Wash slips inside.

He’s going to take a wild stab and say this is Grif and Simmons shared quarters. One half of the space is an ode to minimalism. The other looks like the cross-section of a hoarder’s house. A neatly painted line divides the space right down the middle.

The murmur of voices catches Wash’s attention. He slinks to the door. Pulling out his gun, he leans an ear to the wood and through it hears a choked voice.

“Oh, God. We’re all going to die.” That sounds like Simmons.

Wash mentally checks his weapons one more time, slowing his breathing as he does so.

Then he kicks the door in.

 _“Drop your weapons!”_ He shouts. The door hits the floor with a resounding crack.

 _“HOLY FUCK,”_ someone screams.

Someone else is shrieking. And someone is firing a shotgun.

Wash summersaults out of the way of the blast. He lands back on his feet and raises his pistol. And freezes.

Even by Red team standards, the scene in front of him makes no sense.

“Oh my _god,_ I told you he’d kill us all!” Simmons wails. He’s standing on the kitchen table, in boxers and a t-shirt, and armed with a broom.

“What the hell, you fucking psycho! _Did you just kick our door in half?!”_ Grif shouts from the top of the fridge, hugging a pint of ice cream. He’s also wearing pajamas.

And Sarge is the only one in armor. The man’s balancing precariously on the back of the sofa, cord phone in one hand and a smoking shotgun in the other.

“Good god, man!” The Red Leader crows. “You just made me waste a perfectly good shotgun shell I could have used on more important targets. Like Grif!”

Wash does another sweep of the room to make sure he’s seeing this right.

“What’s going on?” He demands. “What’s wrong?”

“What do you think?!” Simmons shouts.

“Your phone call,” Wash snaps. His eyes flicker over door frames, waiting for a gunman to appear at any moment. “Tucker said it meant a foreign agent has entered the base. Where are they? How many? Are they armed?”

The next thing Wash knows, Grif is on the floor, about to pee himself laughing.

“Jesus _fuck,”_ he cackles. “Oh holy shit, _foreign agent_ \- that’s brilliant, fuck…”

Wash lowers the gun. “What’s going on?”

“Tucker was right!” Sarge growls. “We’ve been invaded! Infiltrated!”

The Freelancer snaps the pistol back to the ready. “Where are they? How many?”

“There!” Sarge thrusts a finger at the floor below the sofa.

The bare concrete floor.

Wash raises his head. “Excuse me?”

“There!” The red’s voice is filled with disgust.

Stepping a bit closer, Wash stares down at the empty air Sarge is still pointing at. Wash briefly wonders if he should be checking the room for high levels of carbon monoxide. Or some sort of hallucinogenic.

The Freelancer looks up at Grif and Simmons. “Are…  you seeing something too?”

“Uh, obviously,” Simmons says. “It’s huge.”

“Right…” Wash says.

Sarge grunts and teeters on the back of the sofa.

“The ugly bastard, right there.” He insists.

Wash eyes the floor, then the rest of the room. To say he was losing control of the situation would imply there was ever any control to begin with.

“Are you… talking to Grif?” Wash tries weakly.

Sarge laughs. “Haha, zing! Keep it up and you’re in line for a promotion.”

“Up yours,” Grif says around a mouthful of ice cream.

“I’m not sure you can promote the enemy, sir,” Simmons speaks up.

Wash goes back to studying the floor.

“You still don’t see it, man?” Sarge grumbles. “Right there at your feet. Can’t miss it. Face of evil, all those diabolical plotting eyes, eight monstrous legs, unnatural-”

It’s at that moment what Wash had mistaken for a spec of dirt on the floor starts walking.

Sarge almost falls off the couch. Simmons shrieks,  _“OHHOLYSHIT, don’t let it get too close!”_ and dances on the table.

Wash stares down at the spider smaller than his thumbnail.

A laugh breaks out of him, arching and a bit crazy but he doesn’t give a shit. He looks up to find Red team eyeing him.

“Right, well,” Wash tucks his pistol away and claps his hands. “Good night.” He heads for the door.

“Where are you going?” Simmons cries. “You can’t leave!”

“I’m going,” Wash growls, voice toneless, “to sleep. Or do you have a ladybug you wanted to show me?”

“This is serious business, Agent Washington!” Sarge exclaims.

“At least take it with you!” Simmons begs.

Wash crosses his arms. “This is a joke,” he says, voice slowly rising in pitch. “You called me over here. In the middle of the night. For a _spider._ The size. Of _a piece of lint?!”_

“Spider removal is one of the negotiated roles of Blue Team.” Sarge wobbles on the sofa back. “We call an emergency truce and Church-”

“You convinced _Church_ to come kill spiders for you,” Wash says, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“Don’t kill it!” Simmons wails, hugging his broom.

“Are you shitting me?” There goes the respectable pitch of his voice again.

“Of course not!” Sarge says. “That web spinning bastard managed to slip through Red defenses - a feat few have managed to accomplish. Allowing it to live is a sign of respect! And also prevents relatives from seeking out revenge.”

Wash looks over a Grif. The man is leaning back against the fridge and finishing off his carton of ice cream.

“And why can’t you deal with this?” Wash demands. “You don’t seem to have a problem touching the floor.”

Grif smirks. “Oh, I would, but I’m _totally_ scared of spiders. Complete arachnophobia over here. One hundred percent. If I even look at it I might die of a heart attack.” He shrugs. “Guess that means it’s up to you.”

“Simmons!” Sarge orders. “Take a picture of that spider and show it to Grif.”

“But, sir!” Simmons gasps, backing further from the edge of the table.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Wash snaps.

He swipes an empty glass and gun magazine from the coffee table. In less than three seconds he’s trapped the spider inside the cup, magazine on top.

Standing, he holds it out to the Reds. “There. Happy?”

The entire team breathes a sigh of relief. The Freelancer rolls his eyes.

“Took you long enough,” Sarge grumbles, climbing down from the sofa.

Wash resists the urge to fling the spider onto Sarge, primarily because the man’s still holding a shotgun. Instead, he stalks for the door.

“I can’t believe you literally kicked the door in half,” Grif mutters as he inspects the damage, nudging the ruined door with his foot.

“Yeah,” says Simmons, hopping down from the table to join him. “I mean, how- _you broke the window too?! You’re fixing this, right?!”_

Wash grits his teeth and walks out of the base.

 

After tossing the spider into some bushes, Wash stomps back into Blue base to find Tucker half asleep on the couch and Caboose eating cereal and milk off a plate rather than a bowl. Neither of them is anything close to combat ready. In fact, they’re both still in pajamas.

“Back already?” Tucker asks, head lazily propped up on one arm.

Wash knows there’s no way in hell the teal soldier would be awake right now if he didn’t want to be. Meaning he’s been waiting up for Wash this whole time just to see a reaction.

“You knew about this.” Wash accuses.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about, Washington.”

Wash heads to bed without another word. He even manages to get a few hours sleep around planning how many extra laps Tucker’s getting tomorrow, and fantasizing about hiding tarantulas in a certain team’s armor.

 

* * *

 

Tucker’s not actually sure if Chorus has spiders. They’re light years away from Earth after all, with a completely different ecosystem.

And ecosystem bent on fucking your shit up.

Like the time Grey asked the Reds to accompany her on a simple botany expedition which turned out to be the doctor feeding chunks of a cadaver to Venus Flytraps the size of cars. One plant grabbed Donut, and the team ended up cutting the pink soldier out of the creature’s stomach.

Or the time a scaled moth the size of a falcon made its nest in a toilet bowl of the sim troopers’ shared bathroom. Tucker got up to take a piss one night and almost got his dick bitten off.

Their retirement to the moon hasn’t been much different what with the dinosaurs and meth mushrooms. So you can’t exactly judge Chorus’s flora and fauna by Earth standards.

But ‘spider’ is the only word that comes to mind when looking at the monstrosity Caboose just hauled into the base.

Turns out Chrous’s equivalent of a house spider is the size of a tire and looks like it crawled out the asshole of Satan’s nightmares.

It’s got eight legs. At least. Tucker’s not sure if the other appendages would be classified as spines, hair, or eye stalks. Tucker also can’t tell it’s front end from its back end but hopefully Caboose can because the man’s letting it lick his face. Caboose hugs it to his chest like a teddy bear and the creature burbles.

“There is no god if that thing exists,” Tucker says, shaking his head. He’s backed as far away as he can get and put the kitchen table between him and it.

Caboose grins and hugs the creature closer.

“Her name is Pinecone. Because she is sharp and I found her in a tree.”

Pinecone makes a noise like a dying garbage disposal and licks Caboose with a third purple maybe-tongue. The twitching legs leave smears of black grease all over Caboose’s shirt. Tucker makes a mental note to burn everything the man’s wearing.

“Can I keep her?” Caboose asks. “That way Freckles will have a sister.”

Tucker raises his hands in surrender. “I’m gonna let Wash handle this one. Wash?”

Tucker looks over at the Blue Leader. There’s been an odd lack of high-pitched shrieking since Caboose walked in with Pinecone. That's unusual considering most of Caboose’s potential pets have made at least one attempt on the Freelancer’s life. The last one peed in Wash’s boots before setting them on fire because it turns out that one pissed rocket fuel and clicked its teeth to make sparks.

And yet Wash standing right in front of Caboose, looking at the horror in the man’s arms like it’s no more interesting than a worm.

“Uh, Wash,” Tucker tries again. “You wanna take this?”

Holy fuck, Washington better not be thinking about letting Caboose keep Pinecone.

“Listen, Caboose,” the Freelancer says, voice soft, “Freckles might get jealous if you start spending time with a new pet instead of him.”

“Oh, thank Christ,” Tucker breathes, grabbing his chest.

“But,” Wash continues in the same tone, “the Reds are looking for a pet.”

Tucker blinks. “They are?”

Wash completely ignores him, focusing on Caboose. “Why don’t you let… Pinecone… explore Red base?” He says with perfect innocence. “And they can go find her. Like, hide and seek.”

Caboose’s eyes light up. “That is the best idea!” he gasps before sprinting out the door. “Thank you, Agent Washington!”

That leaves Tucker alone to gape at Wash with bulging eyes. The Freelancer sits down at the kitchen table to finish his coffee.

“Dude,” Tucker croaks. “That’s evil.” He’s already mentally reviewing everything he’s ever done to fuck over Wash and growing more nervous by the second.

The man smirks down at his mug. “My mother called it having a ‘long memory.’”

Two minutes later, distant screams are heard from Red base.

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this in 7 days which is a massively impressive record for me, considering I usually take 4-6 months.
> 
> This fic was actually inspired by two of secretlystephaniebrown's posts on Tumblr. [This one is about Chorus being the 'Australia of the Universe'](http://wordsysayswords.tumblr.com/post/175744435464/secretlystephaniebrown-secretlystephaniebrown) and [This one is about the Red team employing Wash to get rid of spiders](http://wordsysayswords.tumblr.com/post/175671628800/secretlystephaniebrown-all-of-red-team-hates)
> 
> UPDATE: The AMAZING GoLBPodfics (digiella) turned this into a podfic and it’s BEAUTIFUL! I’m never going to recover. Go listen right now!
> 
> Comments and critiques welcome!
> 
> Come say hi at [wordsysayswords](http://wordsysayswords.tumblr.com)

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] Foreign Agent](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19056277) by [GoLBPodfics (digiella)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/digiella/pseuds/GoLBPodfics)




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